like to go, I make a quick cursory search of my clutch bag just to make sure that I have my bank card with me. Thank god , I think when I find it. For a moment my mind turns to all those clothes back in my hotel room – both the few crappy rags I brought with me, and of course the many fancy outfits I’ve since bought with that asshole’s money, and none of which I’ll miss.
“To Heathrow Airport, please,” I say decisively.
§
I board the only American-bound flight I can afford – an overnight that seems to make about a million and one stops on its way – and the whole thing lurches by in a blur of fitful sleep and crying. Right now I don’t even care that I’ve maxed out my credit card, buying this last-minute ticket home. I’m just glad that I’m away – final away from England, finally away from him .
Every time my mind flashes back to that horrible final scene in his house, I’m filled with an almost uncontrollable rage, and I start thinking again about all the things I should have done: like thrown his food in his fucking face.
A few times, I manage to grab some sleep, but for the most part I’m left awake and sobbing, and by the time the flight pulls in at its final destination and I stumble, bleary-eyed out into SFO airport and head towards the taxi rank, I’m pretty much dead on my feet.
But even so, even in my current state, it feels so good to be home ; to hear American accents once again, and to think that that bastard is now safely on the other side of the fucking planet.
By the time the airport taxi pulls up outside Mom and Alexander’s place, it’s a bright sunny day outside, and I have no idea what time it even is anymore. My whole body feels leaden with tiredness, and I’m already rehearsing the excuse I’m gonna tell Mom – how I’m going to carefully manage her surprise at seeing me here, then simply tell her that I’ll explain everything tomorrow , and as I trudge towards the familiar front door, I’m already looking forward to the delicious moment when I can just fall back into my own bed again, pull the sheets right up over my head and drift away to sleep ...
I unlock the door and step inside, and the first thing I notice is that the house feels strangely quiet and empty – eerily so. For a moment I wonder if I’m alone, if perhaps Mom and Alexander have gone out somewhere, but then I hear the sound of soft murmured voices, coming from the living room.
I assume they must be having some kind of private talk, but even so, I decide to let them know I’m here.
“Hello?” I call. “It’s me, Stacey! Surprise!”
But there’s no answer. And as I approach the door to the living room, I get this weird, uneasy feeling in my stomach – like something isn’t quite right.
I open the door, and the first thing I see isn’t my mom but Colt , dressed in a black suit, sitting slumped in the corner, his head in his hands.
What the fuck is he doing here?
I look over at my mom and her face is all blotchy and red; it’s obvious she’s been crying.
“Mom? Are you okay?” I blurt out, confused. “What’s happened? What’s going on?”
But she doesn’t answer me, instead just starting to sob again, her whole body shuddering with the force of her emotion.
I turn to Colt in total confusion now, watching him as he stands up and approaches me, his face masked with a kind of pain and sadness I’ve not seen from him before.
“Stacey, I’m so sorry,” he says quietly, not quite meeting my eye. “I tried to message you but you were already in the air ... My father ... Alexander ... passed away last night.”
Looking back, I don’t know how I even made it through those first two weeks – from the moment I got the call from my stepmom, Gloria, to the moment I delivered the eulogy at his funeral, well, it was all just a blur: the days flashing by with alarming speed, my head crammed so painfully with recrimination and regret. And as I threw myself into
“To Heathrow Airport, please,” I say decisively.
§
I board the only American-bound flight I can afford – an overnight that seems to make about a million and one stops on its way – and the whole thing lurches by in a blur of fitful sleep and crying. Right now I don’t even care that I’ve maxed out my credit card, buying this last-minute ticket home. I’m just glad that I’m away – final away from England, finally away from him .
Every time my mind flashes back to that horrible final scene in his house, I’m filled with an almost uncontrollable rage, and I start thinking again about all the things I should have done: like thrown his food in his fucking face.
A few times, I manage to grab some sleep, but for the most part I’m left awake and sobbing, and by the time the flight pulls in at its final destination and I stumble, bleary-eyed out into SFO airport and head towards the taxi rank, I’m pretty much dead on my feet.
But even so, even in my current state, it feels so good to be home ; to hear American accents once again, and to think that that bastard is now safely on the other side of the fucking planet.
By the time the airport taxi pulls up outside Mom and Alexander’s place, it’s a bright sunny day outside, and I have no idea what time it even is anymore. My whole body feels leaden with tiredness, and I’m already rehearsing the excuse I’m gonna tell Mom – how I’m going to carefully manage her surprise at seeing me here, then simply tell her that I’ll explain everything tomorrow , and as I trudge towards the familiar front door, I’m already looking forward to the delicious moment when I can just fall back into my own bed again, pull the sheets right up over my head and drift away to sleep ...
I unlock the door and step inside, and the first thing I notice is that the house feels strangely quiet and empty – eerily so. For a moment I wonder if I’m alone, if perhaps Mom and Alexander have gone out somewhere, but then I hear the sound of soft murmured voices, coming from the living room.
I assume they must be having some kind of private talk, but even so, I decide to let them know I’m here.
“Hello?” I call. “It’s me, Stacey! Surprise!”
But there’s no answer. And as I approach the door to the living room, I get this weird, uneasy feeling in my stomach – like something isn’t quite right.
I open the door, and the first thing I see isn’t my mom but Colt , dressed in a black suit, sitting slumped in the corner, his head in his hands.
What the fuck is he doing here?
I look over at my mom and her face is all blotchy and red; it’s obvious she’s been crying.
“Mom? Are you okay?” I blurt out, confused. “What’s happened? What’s going on?”
But she doesn’t answer me, instead just starting to sob again, her whole body shuddering with the force of her emotion.
I turn to Colt in total confusion now, watching him as he stands up and approaches me, his face masked with a kind of pain and sadness I’ve not seen from him before.
“Stacey, I’m so sorry,” he says quietly, not quite meeting my eye. “I tried to message you but you were already in the air ... My father ... Alexander ... passed away last night.”
Looking back, I don’t know how I even made it through those first two weeks – from the moment I got the call from my stepmom, Gloria, to the moment I delivered the eulogy at his funeral, well, it was all just a blur: the days flashing by with alarming speed, my head crammed so painfully with recrimination and regret. And as I threw myself into
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